Broadway Night
by Disfordarnit
Summary: Abbie takes Ichabod to see Hamilton.


When the applause had died down and the cast turned away with a last wave to the enthusiastic audience, Abbie tried to scan Ichabod's face to gauge his reaction. Did he enjoy it? Did he have a good time? Of course, he would catch all the inaccuracies, as evidenced by the several grunts and huffings she heard while sitting next to him in the darkened theatre hall. Of course he would know the timeline had been smudged for dramatic effect. Of course he would be legitimately angry at the cavalier way his beloved Washington and Jefferson were portrayed. But did the costumes and muskets and battle-gear bring him back to _his_ time? Did they _comfort_ him, somewhat? Did he at least like the songs?

All these questions were racing in Abbie's head as she gathered up her coat and scarf, unsure whether to ask him outright or to pretend she didn't really care and move on to dinner instead. She inched her way between the now folded up seats into the aisles, gathering her courage before turning round to face Ichabod with a smile once they reached the end of their assigned row. "So?" She decided to leave it at that. He could choose to interpret it as a question about the show or a question as to where they should go next.

Ichabod shrugged on his coat, casually flicking his long hair out of the upturned collar. "Hungry?" was all he said, with an eyebrow raise Abbie was more than familiar with. It meant, "Let's talk about it another time." Abbie instantly regretted bringing him here. Perhaps watching a Broadway musical about people he knew personally, events he witnessed and was a part of, was a bad idea. To Abbie, it was amusing, it was creative, it was fun. To Ichabod, it was probably insulting, a mockery of the deaths he witnessed and the battles he fought, a painful reminder of a home he could no longer return to.

There were still many people in the lobby slowly making their way out. Some were checking on their phones, ordering up an Uber or tweeting their small review of the show. A group of teen boys were ahead of Abbie, laughing at some jokes and calling out "Lafayette!", the chorus' refrain from Guns and Ships. They were jostling each other, almost bumping into Abbie's small frame. Ichabod placed a hand on her shoulder, confidently guiding her out of the crowd, his height proving useful in finding the slips in the busy stream of excited theatre patrons. The boys were oblivious to Abbie trying to make her way to the door, stopping and starting in time to their own exuberance, their own private joy. Abbie had to stop to avoid being pushed back. She could feel Ichabod's hard chest against her back, and a hand on her hip, to steady her? Steady himself?

 _Helpless!_

 _Down for the count and I'm drowning' in em._

Ichabod's eyes, staring at her. Ichabod's hand on her hip, fingers caressing. All these images came unbidden as Eliza Hamilton's song repeated itself in her head. She blinked it away and pushed her way through the last line of people and out into the din of New York traffic.

 _In New York you can be a new man._

They walked towards the subway station, Ichabod quiet and pensive, Abbie worried she might have brought up too many memories of his past. It was too cold for her so she warmed her hands in the pockets of her leather coat.

"It's interesting," Ichabod started, "how they cast actors of a different…color? Than the real person they're supposed to be portraying. I'm sure Monsieur Lafayette would have found it extremely amusing. Thomas Jefferson, however, might strongly disagree. I have to say," a wry smile formed on his thin lips, "Lafayette was most definitely not as. Flamboyant."

Abbie merely chuckled in response. Best to just let him talk and not to interrupt too much. Let him process this. In his own way, on his own time.

"I do resent, however, Lieutenant, that they implied Thomas Jefferson spends his time smoking…. _something_ at Monticello." His long fingers waved up to his temples at the word "something".

This time Abbie had to speak up. "I don't think being called a pothead is the worst accusation against Thomas Jefferson, Crane. He did more than that."

Ichabod grunted a concession. It was a long standing agreement between them that they would no longer debate about Thomas Jefferson. Ichabod agreed that Thomas Jefferson, while a great contributor to the founding of this great nation, was nevertheless someone whom youngsters nowadays would call a 'problematic fave'. Abbie, on her part, agreed that while Thomas Jefferson was a raging hypocrite who mistreated women, he was also an integral part in creating America into what it is today.

"My goodness, but the songs do tend to stay with you, don't they?"

"Indeed, Crane."

"Indeed."

They continued walking in silence.

"Did you like it, though?" Abbie couldn't take it anymore. She had to ask.

Ichabod stopped, turning his considerable height towards Abbie's tiny figure on the sidewalk. New Yorkers deftly side-stepped around them, hardly breaking their strides. "Lieutenant. Thank you for taking me to New York. The last time I was here, the buildings were made of wood and there were wolves in the woods outside our camp. Mr. Hamilton would have been proud to see the banks he built still stand to this day. Prouder still that the orphanage Mrs. Eliza Hamilton established after his death continue to care for so many children. I can only imagine how Alexander Hamilton would feel that someone decided his life story would have been made into… into a. A revue. "

"And? What about you?"

"Much of the second act, Lieutenant," his eyes darkened, his hands flitted to his face, to his chest. "I was already. I missed most of that because I had already, well, died. Even though I am certain they took a considerable amount of dramatic license, as to make the actions interesting, I am sorry to have missed the very first election, to have witnessed for myself General Washington's presidency. And as I'm here, walking with you in this city, I couldn't help but wonder if perhaps things would have been different if I had not. Disappeared."

"That instead of Hamilton, it might've been you?"

"He did many many great things. He helped. He had Washington's ear, as did I. He had a family."

As did you, Crane. Or almost. Abbie stopped those words from forming on her tongue.

"I am grateful." And here, he bowed deeply to Abbie. He would not have been out of place on that Broadway stage with the other performers. "I am grateful that I am here to see the fruits of the founding father's labors. That we are here, in New York, with all these _yellow cars_ and steel buildings, and tiny telephones that can send miniscule telegrams to people thousands of miles away, of which they will receive in a single second." He raised a single slender finger, blue eyes staring at Abbie before slowly, tiredly sighing, "If I could send such a message to General Washington now. Or even to Mr. Hamilton."

"What would you say, Crane?"

"That I am now with someone who perfectly encapsulates everything they hoped this country could be. If that song they sang to Young Master Phillip and Little Theodosia were true, then, yes, they did it. They made a world where someone like you, Lieutenant, could blow someone like them, away."

They stood there on that New York sidewalk for a good minute, Abbie smiling and marveling at Crane's words, Ichabod willing himself to not say anything more, anything that would give him away. A brusque lady's shoulder brushed past Ichabod's and the spell was broken.

 _In New York you can be a new man._

As the train approached the platform and Abbie respectfully waited for the other patrons to exit the train, she lightly tapped Ichabod's elbow and said, "You're helping now, Crane. You can build everything you wanted to build now. In this time. The tools are just different, that's all." She considered whether to continue or to just end it there. It had to be said. "You have family. With us. With me."

She stepped into the train and the whoosh of a different train drowned out Ichabod's soft reply.

"That is probably the singular thread that is holding me together, Abbie."

Weeks later, back in Sleepy Hollow, Abbie came home, arms full of Chinese take out and unsolved case files. The shower was running so she set down her things and went inside her room to change. As she passed the bathroom door she could hear Captain Ichabod Crane, thumping wet hands against the bathroom tiles, "I am not throwing away my. Shot! I am not throwing away my. Shot!"


End file.
